earthworms fecundating madly in the scented garden. the first roses bloom. the day begins early and earlier, ends later and late. everything is lush and extraordinary, the heat and rain absorbed by the life in rooted things and the succulence overwhelms any memory of winter. the woman showed me pictures of her granddaughter in the snow. look at the snow, i exclaimed. like winter was a planet far from the solar system i breathe in this morning after another white-noise night of rain.
whether i want to or not im going to have to weed after work if the weather complies. the bleeding heart is so gigantic i had no idea there was some enormous other growing beneath it, like a pumpkin or a burdock. and the abraham lincoln plant in the front garden, all stalk and lean rumpled leaves. friend or foe of rudbeckia and peonies? looks like roadside dock, her carpetbag of a million intrepid children. the royal we cultivates a wait and see attitude, keeping wary tab from the corner of an eye.
the bumblebees sound like hummingbirds. the jays sound like rainforest monkeys. the mourning doves sound like unrequited lovers. i go to bed thinking about the quality of my garden soil. i wake up wondering what has grown in the night. the little tomato and pepper seedlings hold their own, like runty princes in wide warm beds. time for thinning, hoeing, turning the compost. but at least i havent had to water.
the boss and i discuss bearded iris, alpaca manure, and how theres always room for another flowerbed, somewhere. she planted her lilies choreographically, yellow to orange to rust. these are not flowers, she says, these are my mother, my grandmother. her eyes shine with oceanwater. you dont think i know, she says, but i know.
